“And?”
“And what? By the time I learned that she didn’t drown in the lake, all security tapes were erased. At the aquatic center the only cameras are on the doors. It’s easy to get in and out. A lot of people have access. They are not monitored 24/7. When we looked, we found no evidence of foul play, but weeks had passed—I didn’t expect to find anything, even if she had been killed there. No one reported anything out of the ordinary. I spoke to members of the swim team, janitorial staff, the coach. While it might be the most logical crime scene, it’s impossible to prove. There are plenty of other pools in town that she could have drowned in. It still doesn’t explain where she went, why she didn’t use her phone after the party, or why she left campus, returned Sunday night, then left without sleeping in her bed.”
“And that’s where Lucas can help.”
“Maybe.” Young took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “You know, I hope he gets something, but I’m not holding my breath.”
“Did you know that Candace kept a journal?”
“We had her computer. Nothing of interest was found on it.”
“No, a physical journal. Like a diary.”
“That she wrote in?”
“Yes. Her roommate told me she wrote in it regularly, and that she didn’t think about it until the family came to clear out her dorm room and her sister asked about it.”
“I interviewed her roommate. She never mentioned it to me.”
“Maybe you didn’t ask the right questions.”
She wished she could take back the comment. Young clammed up, his jaw set in anger.
“I take it you’re not done with the podcast,” he said, his dark eyes meeting hers. Yes, he was very angry.
“Correct.”
“I have no doubt that Lucas Vega is going to cross a line, if he hasn’t already.”
She had more questions, but Young kept looking at his watch, and she doubted he’d share anything more about his investigation after she’d slighted him. Sometimes, her tongue spoke before her brain thought things through.
She hoped in a day or two he might be inclined to share more. Especially if she and Lucas uncovered a witness that might help him solve the case.
He looked at his watch again, then said, “I have to get back to work, but I hope you’ll keep me informed of anything relevant you learn.”
She wouldn’t withhold important information from the police, but she wasn’t one hundred percent sold that Detective Young was as invested in this case as she was. “Thank you for your time,” she said, extending her hand again; he shook it.
“I can walk you out.”
She was going to decline, but the offer sounded like an olive branch, so she took it. As they exited, she said, “I have another question. Do you think Candace’s disappearance is directly related to her murder?”
“It would seem so. It’s logical, yes, but I have no proof either way.”
He held the main door open for her, and they stepped out into the sun. “If you want to know what my gut says, I’ll disappoint you,” he said. “While I understand and appreciate a cop’s intuition—which is basically experience—I still rely on facts. Right now there is no evidence of any connection between Candace disappearing for over a week and then being murdered the night before her body was found, yet that is the most logical assumption. I feel someone has lied to me, but I don’t know who. I interviewed many people more than once, including the sorority girls, the staff at the shelter where she volunteered, and Candace’s boyfriends. If someone is lying, who is it? And why? And why would they want Candace dead? By everyone’s testimony, she was well-liked, popular, kind, smart. It could be random. It could be a psychopath who held her for eight days before he killed her. I’m stumped. I have dozens of other cases in major crimes to investigate. So if you get something solid, I’d appreciate if you tell me. But I can’t spend time and resources investigating a case that’s three years old without new evidence.”
That she understood. His frustration came through loud and clear.
Yes, someone had lied. But alibis weren’t the only thing people lied about.
Young looked at his phone, sent a quick text.
“Go ahead,” she said, nodding to the phone. “I’m good.”
He finished his text, then said, “I’m sorry I came down hard on you at the beginning, but I mean it—you find something, I need to know.”
“Understood.”
Eighteen
Regan hated being late. She briskly walked from the public lot to the Biological Sciences building and made it to Rachel Wagner’s office with one minute to spare.
The door was open, and Rachel sat at her desk, her phone to her ear. She waved for Regan to enter, putting up a finger that she would just be a minute.
Regan remained standing while surveying the small, tidy, bright office. Like most professors, there were multiple bookshelves packed with tomes—in Rachel’s case, mostly science-related. There was one shelf of fiction, a variety of popular books. Also many knickknacks, trophies, and plaques. On the walls, lots of pictures—of the Sigma Rho sorority, of a younger Rachel in a cheerleading uniform. Regan moved closer and realized that Rachel had cheered for the University of Arizona in college. There was also a photo of Rachel and a large group of women, framed with a plaque underneath that read Sigma Rho, University of Arizona, Class of 2008.
Same year Regan graduated from NAU. Had she gone to U of A she might have known Rachel. Small world.
Rachel was an attractive woman, with a tall, athletic build that suggested an active life.
“Thanks, honey, I’ll see you tonight,” Rachel disconnected and looked up at Regan. “Sorry about that. Finalizing date night with my boyfriend.”
“No problem.” She nodded toward the photo. “You and I graduated college the same year.”